


Grand Theft Auto: Stardew Valley

by Ambitious_Rubbish



Series: Miscellaneous Miscellanea [5]
Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V, Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26292730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambitious_Rubbish/pseuds/Ambitious_Rubbish
Summary: What happens when the new farmer to Pelican Town decides to branch out into more than just farming? What happens when Harvey decides to pursue his dreams of becoming a pilot instead of being a doctor?Yoba help us all, we better hope it’s not this.
Series: Miscellaneous Miscellanea [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910671
Kudos: 1





	Grand Theft Auto: Stardew Valley

I’m not sure what possessed me to buy a disused airfield out in the middle of Sandy Shores. I mean, I’d been drinking… maybe doing a little Blow. I’m sure that had something to do with the impetuous decision to dump somewhere around 2.2 million dollars of liquid assets into this shitheap.

And now that I’m sober, I’m regretting it.

Goodbye, Ancient Fruit Wine profits. How I’ll miss you.

And, of course, it’s not like I can get a refund for any of this. Caveat Emptor is in full effect.

Looking back, I suppose I bought the stupid thing because I thought I could actually _do_ something with the place. Set up a nice, little air freight business. You know, “freight.” Like guns. Or drugs. Or guns that shoot drugs. Stuff like that.

But, as usual, I was getting ahead of myself. There is a single, serviceable plane in that hangar. And I use the term “serviceable” loosely. The poor thing’s held together with duct tape, chewing gum and baling wire. And my “partner” in this enterprise…

“Harvey.”

He’s got his radio cranked up to full, listening in on transmissions from pilots passing overhead. I’m not exactly sure what’s so engrossing about listening to cargo jockeys gabbing about the three things that matter to them: the weather, food, and women of loose moral fiber, but he sure seems glued to that headset.

“Be passing over Paletto Bay in a minute, heading north. Ground speed roughly 240 knots. Looks like some clouds ahead, might get a little turbulence. ‘course I might wanna get some turbulence of a different kind once I make my drop-off. If you know what I’m saying.”

“That’s a big roger, Papa-Golf-Two-Five-Heavy. Looking good from down here...”

I give the back right leg of his chair a little kick. “Harvey!”

Unfortunately, Harvey has terrible posture, and he goes cartwheeling out of the chair like a thirteen-year old Chinese gymnast. He peels himself off the hangar floor, adjusts his glasses and shoots me this big, wide-eyed look.

“Papa-Golf, gotta go. Echo-Zulu out.”

“So, you said there’s a job waiting for us.”

He consults the clipboard next to the radio. There’s a whole bevy of Post-It notes and other memos covering the actual page attached to the clipboard, turning what should have been a plain, white sheet of paper into a cornucopia of color. It looks like a unicorn vomited rainbows onto the page. And everything is covered in illegible chickenscratch. Geez. With his handwriting, he should’ve stayed a doctor.

“Sure is. Did you see the NX-25 outside?”

I did. An honest-to-goodness Buckingham Howard NX-25. What I wouldn’t do to get my hands on the flight yoke of one of those babies. (No, that’s not meant to be dirty.)

“Well, she’s yours for the day.”

“You yanking my chain, Harvey?”

“Of course not. You need that chain to protect yourself from the aliens.”

This is one of those lines of conversation that, if you’re smart, you walk away from as fast as you can, and never look back. Needless to say, I’m a complete imbecile. This, right here, is proof.

“What… aliens?”

“The ones that have infiltrated the FIB and are now running investigations on ordinary Ferngillians in order to-”

“Nope. Stop right there. I don’t have time for this. Just tell me what the job is.”

“Sure. I set you up with a sweet gig for a Middle Eastern oil baron who lives up in Mulholland. It’s his son’s fifteenth birthday party, and, well, you know teenagers.”

“I may have been one at some point in my life.”

“Well, he promised them a ‘show.’ So, you fly over his mansion, maybe do a couple of barrel rolls, and he’ll tell us where the cargo is.”

“How many is ‘a few?’”

“Like a dozen? Oh, but I also promised him that you’d… maybe do a couple more things.”

“Like?”

“Fly between the smokestacks at the Pisswasser brewery? Do a few laps of the Observatory? Um, well, here, I made a list.”

“You want me to ‘strafe a golf cart at the golf club?!’ The plane doesn’t have guns!” Goes to show my state of mind that _that_ is my objection to that particular task.

“You could probably get away with just buzzing them a little. The kids just want to see the golfers scatter a bit.”

“And if I do all this crap, we get the cargo.”

“That’s the deal.”

“You trust this guy to _honor_ the deal?”

“… well, he is a bourgeois capitalist, so… maybe not?”

“Harvey, when I get back, we need to have a serious talk about how thoroughly you’re vetting our potential clientele.”


End file.
